


behind; a cold and windy waste

by krakenlord



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Abstract, Capitalism, Crimes & Criminals, Exile, Gen, Headcanon, Wordcount: 500-1.000, i guess??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-25 03:41:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12522164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krakenlord/pseuds/krakenlord
Summary: A series of short (500 word each) pieces focusing on the Masters' crimes in the High Wilderness. Completely unbeta'd, updated whenever.





	1. Hoarding - Mr Stones

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am merely playing in the sandbox of Failbetter Games, and none of the characters in this fic belong to me. I am borrowing them for a bit of fun, and promise to return them unharmed as soon as I am finished.
> 
> Double Disclaimer: Contains lore spoilers, proceed with caution if you're concerned with that sort of thing.

It is too greedy, too greedy by far. A love of all that glitters, this one has, and it is unwilling to let any of its collection go. It does not sing the list of its wares as is customary, advertising the precious stones it bears as it flies through the High Wilderness, but when the hour of the bargain comes it charges too great a price, and cheats and haggles far beyond what is acceptable. What revenue it makes is instantly spent on more gems and precious metals, more sculpture and jewelry. None is offered when it is time for trade, but is instead jealously guarded, potential trading partners driven away by terse answers to their inquiries and potential customers driven away by prices too high to meet.

When it is the hour of the meeting, large numbers of vast-winged things gathered for a brief moment to talk of price-changes and new trade routes through the High Wilderness before their solitary nature spurs them onward through the blackness once more, the council gathers. You are bad for business, they say to it, called before them on the last day of the meeting after many complaints. We cannot allow you to trade with us any longer, for you are too greedy even for our kind, and you bring in no revenue. For the crime of hoarding, you are cast out to fly the emptiness alone, no longer welcome to follow the Order of Days.

It leaves promptly, with no business-partners or loyal customers to say farewell to. It gathers its stock, jewels in pouches and baskets slung about its shoulders, and takes to the vast spaces beyond the trade routes, where there are no other life-forms to hear the list of its wares that it sings as it flies. When it comes upon the Messenger, hiding beyond the very fringes of the Judgements' light, her massive shell illuminated with the burning Correspondence-letters of a message she will not deliver, it is made a promise. All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well, and it shall be surrounded by all that shines and glitters for all the long years ahead. How could it possibly resist?

When the first city falls, its new robes are bright with hundreds and thousands of tiny gems, carefully stitched to the mottled fabric. Its former wares have been turned into the jewelry that it now adorns itself with, now that the hour of the bargain has long since passed, and will not come again. It learns the stones and gems that can be mined in the Neath, the values of each and how they can be shaped, and immediately sets itself to controlling the trade in them. Within its deep hood, its eyes shine, covetous gaze fixed on newfound opportunities. It is still too greedy, and it is still unwilling to part with its collection, and it has been promised control over the wealth of seven cities.


	2. Light-bringing - Mr Fires

It sings, rich voice shaping bright flares of Correspondence as it flies through the Kingdoms of the Judgements. On the borders where only faint starlight reaches, it speaks whatever comes to mind, long strings of words glowing behind in the blackness, leaving a trail of fire as it flies. Here is where it meets the Runt who wraps itself in a dark cloak to conceal its abberance, and they discover their shared love of light.

When the hour of the bargain comes, it offers fuel for the other species that traverse the High Wilderness, carbons and gases and all manner of things. There is not much it can sell to its own kind, with their vast wings that serve them better than a craft ever could, but the fuels are worth enough to keep it living comfortably. Something is missing though, and with some help from its friend, it soon finds a new market to explore.

Quietly, after the bargaining is over and the councils have dispersed, it offers lamps. They are crude things, housing repurposed Correspondence that does not contain a message but burns for the heatless, ruddy light it sheds. It cannot do what the Runt does, cannot make beautiful golden flames that warm as well as illuminate, but the two of them work together to build a clientele. It is a dangerous venture - the Judgments frown on such an occupation. There are no light-bringers lower in the Chain. But there is a market, and for a time the two of them do well for themselves. Inevitably though, word begins to spread of candles that burn warm and bright, and the Runt cannot cloak its luminous fur forever. When its friend is finally driven away, for illumination as much as aberration, it does not follow immediately. It lays low as long as it can and returns to selling fuels, but eventually returns to lantern-making until it too is discovered.

The council convenes and the pedlar-magnate speaks, and suddenly it is flying, fleeing from the inevitable pursuit. It is not safe to speak Correspondence, so it flies in silent darkness until it sees a light darting in the void. Rid of its black cloak, the Runt is brilliant. It has found an employer here, and the Messenger is keen to employ more of their kind. It is quick to accept her promise. _All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well_ , and there will be much to do, much to make, below. When the first city falls, it has been given dominion over its old business of fuels, and its new robes are quickly singed, the rough red burlap scorched and blackened. Its friend - Candles, now - takes to life in the city quickly, but the humans already annoy it ceaselessly, and the city feels confining, but Candles seems to like it, and besides, there are many cities yet to come. Perhaps there will be one in the future that it enjoys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a lot harder to write than I thought it would be! I tried to keep it centered on Fires, but Candles snuck in there and I just had to keep it. I really like the idea that Fires and Candles were genuinely good friends :)


	3. Impersonation & Glass-Whispering - Mr Cups & Mr Mirrors

It accumulates bits and bobs as it travels, containers and crockery and figurines tucked into the swaths of patched and ragged cloth it cloaks itself in, collecting ceramic and tin amongst the heavy folds. Its twin cloaks itself in fine fabrics embroidered with shining thread and bits of glass and metal, and gathers nothing but the words of their fellows - secrets, scandals, the whispers of broken promises - all carefully collected and catalogued. The twins fly in and out of the trade routes, darting between light and shadow effortlessly, exploring what the High Wilderness has to offer.

Outside the Judgement’s light, beyond their decrees of what Is, lies that which Is-Not. Parabola, the Other Place. It has many names, many guises, and many inhabitants - and the twins are fascinated. They have spent much time seeking out the places that are Other, that are forever hidden from the burning rule of the suns - so much time that they have gained themselves a reputation of seeking that which they should not. It is the secret-keeper who first begins to whisper to the mirrors, who first begins to see glimpses of a world behind the glass, a world of color and light that, by all rights, should not exist.

Funnily enough, it is not the secret-keeper’s glass-whispering that brings it to the attention of the councils of their kind, but a simple act of charity. One of its secrets may harm another, if kept, and so it speaks for free, voluntarily going against all the bargain-rules to another’s assistance. It is not hard for the hoarder to exchange its robes for its twin’s, to allow itself to be accosted by the council in place of the secret-keeper, who, taking the discarded robes, has slipped beyond capture. When the time comes, the hoarder lies to the pedlar-magnate’s face, false evidence so that its twin may escape. The council deems it useless, and it takes to the High Wilderness in search of its twin. 

The secret-keeper finds the Messenger first, and the hoarder not long after. There are already a few of their kind who roost in the overhang of her illuminated shell, all outcasts like them. It is not a hard decision to make, when she offers.  _ All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well,  _ and here you may lie, and here you may aid, and you may explore what you like.

It is Mirrors who volunteers to slip behind the glass, Cups who volunteers to remain. They’ve done this trick before, the hoarder pretending to be its twin, the secret-keeper escaping notice. This time, the act will not end - they must maintain this charade until their promise is fulfilled. Cups is content to act as Mirrors, in the cities, and to collect what it pleases. And Mirrors is free to explore the Is-Not, full of dangers and wonders beyond imagination, acting as the Bazaar’s eyes and ears in another little corner of the lightless world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple glimpses at my headcanons for you... I really like the idea that Cups and Mirrors are two different people. Also, how does Parabola work? The Neath may never know.


	4. Perpetration of the crimes of knife and of candle - Mr Iron

The Order of Days does not claim this time - this is not the hour of the hunt or the hour of the slaughter. This is not a fight organized in council for primacy. This is not a dispute between merchants, not even piracy. This is an ugly thing, beyond the Order of Days, against all rules of their kind. No coin can be earned here by their rules, save by those who bet on which combatant will emerge victorious.

The game of Knife-and-Candle is against the law of Judgments, and so participants fight here, beyond the light, where not even the most remote trade routes wind between the stars. It is cold here, the chill of the High Wilderness sharpening to something bone-deep and malevolent. It is fitting, then, that their dangerous game should be played out in the faint light and fainter heat of whispered Correspondence. They too are cold.

Its claws and teeth flash in the darkness. Steam rises from its wounds. It has met a true rival in this fight, and it finds joy in every blow given or taken. It has lived this lightless life for far too long, cast out as a merchant for its participation in the crime, the simple seeking of thrills unknown to their kind. Now its existence revolves around the game, for there is nothing left in the High Wilderness for it but this. It is every inch as cruel a thing as the blades it wields dexterously in its talons, dancing gracefully with its opponent. The two have been fighting for hours, evenly trading blow for blow. They duck and dodge around each other, two shapes in the darkness, until -

\- a slash across the throat, and it is over.

Red-black, sticky blood drips down its chin. A bubbling breath builds into a laugh of surprise that quickly is overtaken by wheezing and choking. Shuddering. Stillness.

The token snatched from around its neck proves its death. A fearsome kill. The victor’s reputation is sure to terrify both newcomers to the game and old players alike. The loser is forgotten, an unclaimed corpse left to float aimlessly in the High Wilderness. But it is not quite dead, not yet. It will not give up on life that easily. It floats there in the blackness for what seems like eons, halfway between life and death.

A light nears.

The Runt brings it to the Messenger, who allows it to hide in her vast shell to recover. When it is well again, it shakes one of her long chitinous legs in agreement with the promise. _All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well._ A debt can be repaid. A past can be forgotten. There was nothing for it, above, but here in the Neath a new life can be made and a new reputation can be forged. The Order of Days does not reach here, and it will forever be grateful for the new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack! I last updated this in February... it's October now. Sorry about that!  
> Although I relate to Iron the most, its chapter was the hardest for me to write so far. I love the idea that it's a hardened criminal of the High Wilderness - it really puts it in contrast with the other Masters who are a bit different.  
> Spices is up next...


End file.
